A/N: Hi guys, here I am with the concluding part of the Trilogy 'It's To You I'll Always Belong'. This part is the sequel of 'A Promise To Keep'. First the texts, then the letters, and now it's time for some face to face confrontation.

Thank you so very much for all the supports you have given my boys so far. I dearly hope that you will continue to be with them in this journey.

Your reviews always brighten my day. So, if you enjoy the chapter and think that you can spare a minute, then please leave a review.

This chapter is neither Brit-picked, nor Beta'd. Each mistake is mine.

I hope you enjoy the read.

Chapter: 1 - A Hundred Miles

If you miss the train I'm on

You will know that I am gone

You will hear the whistle blow

A hundred miles…

- 'Five Hundred Miles' by Justin Timberlake ft. Carey Mulligan

White.

Everything was white.

White ceiling, white walls, white bed sheets. Even the carpet on the floor was closer to white.

White meant hospitals. Rehabilitation centres.

Sherlock hated white.

Sherlock had lost count for how long he had been here. May be for days or months or even years. It didn't matter. Not anymore. He never wanted to end up here, in a rehab. He just wanted to…delete everything, to forget. Just wanted to….didn't matter. He didn't succeed anyway, so it didn't matter. Not anymore. Sherlock didn't care. Not anymore.

His room had a wide window which opened towards the back garden, the one with that small pond. Green. Green was good, green was blank. Green was devoid of any memories. But now even that patch of nature was betraying Sherlock. It was mostly covered in grey with ashen green. Still better than golden though, better than warmth.

A slanted late afternoon sunray fought its way through the gloomy clouds and crept into his room and dared to touch his extended feet on the white bed sheet. Sherlock snatched his feet from its clutch, as if burned. Sunrays. Golden. Golden was dangerous. Golden was chaotic. Golden was too familiar. Sherlock didn't want golden.

He stared at the far wall. They wanted to decorate his room too. Insisted upon putting mistletoe at least. As if he was going to...imbeciles. Bunch of dimwits. Didn't they know Sherlock hated Christmas? Didn't they know he had nothing to celebrate? No one was coming home to him? Didn't they know?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The back of Sherlock's head hit the wall in a steady rhythm.

No one is coming home to me. Not anymore.

~0~0~0~

"Yes?"

"We are on our way, Sir. Should I move the subject to the facility or should I bring him to you first?"

"Ah, well, I would like to talk to him first. Will his condition permit him to do that?"

"He seems to be quite stable for now. I hope he will be able to."

"Then please do bring him to me first. I will meet him after visiting Sherlock."

"Very well, Sir. Anything else?"

"No, that's all for now. Thank you, Anthea."

With that, Mycroft ended his call. He had a long evening ahead of him.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock was still in the same position as before when Natalie, his appointed nurse in the rehab, informed him that he had a visitor. So, it's Wednesday then. Sherlock used to get bristled at the mention of this particular visitor but now he only sighed and steeled himself for another mind numbing few minutes. What good would it do to exhaust himself with hopeless protestations when nothing could get him out of this hellhole before his term was completed?

It was a private rehabilitation facility which apparently had a direct one-way line from his brother's bank account to its own. Hence, Sherlock had a private visitor's room here which was currently occupied by Mycroft Holmes, who could also visit him anytime he wished, apparently. Sherlock clenched his jaw at the sight of him and entered the room.

"Hello, brother, how are we feeling today?"

The speaker flashed a smile which was more like showing teeth than anything else.

"You probably fat and stupid, me...well, wonderful."

Sherlock ignored the offered chair and chose to stand by the window.

"Now now, Sherlock, don't need to get feisty yet. It's a charming evening."

Of course Sherlock needed to get feisty, in fact that was the whole point behind Mycroft's calling this drab evening charming. It was all for riling him up more, wasn't it? Damn Mycroft and his cunning.

"Do you have any special torture to inflict upon me today or will it be the usual brain rotting lectures from you?"

Mycroft remained unfazed by the jab and Sherlock began to pace around. Another of their usual Wednesday meeting.

"I've heard that you are taking your medicine without much protest now."

Trust his brother to make inane obvious statements. Sherlock bristled.

"Is that a problem now?"

"No, not at all. I'm quite surprised for your..uh..cooperation, that's all."

It was impossible for Sherlock to take this anymore.

"Why are you here Mycroft? Spit it out."

"Why, I come here every week on this same day and-"

"And make my existence a little more painful. Yes, I know." Sherlock snatched the sentence from him and finished it.

"Are you prepared to take new visitors now?"

Sherlock spun on his heel and glared, "What do you mean?"

Mycroft stood as well. It seemed confronting Sherlock needed the strength of his full height.

"The last time you met someone other than me you reacted quite unexpectedly."

The visitation Mycroft was talking about was paid by Detective Inspector Lestrade. It wasn't overly friendly. In fact Lestrade came here on Mycroft's request because no matter how impossible it looked like Mycroft had the best interest for Sherlock in his heart and he knew a mind like Sherlock's would wither without intellectual stimulation. And he thought dealing with some minor cold cases might help Sherlock to distract his mind from certain things or rather certain someone. But eventually that plan proved disastrous as Sherlock saw through it and demanded Lestrade to tell him how much Mycroft paid him to give him all those less than poor cases. It was unexpected because Lestrade was one of the fewer people with whom Sherlock tried to behave decently.

"It is not my fault that your expectation is poorly based. Anyway, I might consider solving some cases now if that's what this visitor of yours will intend to bring."

"Ah, what the visitor will bring that I cannot tell, but hopefully it wouldn't be fruitless for you."

"Our idea of 'fruitless' differs widely, brother, so let's not draw any conclusion."

"Fair enough. So, will it be alright if he visits in a couple of days?"

"Do you think I enjoy seeing your face that much or is there any real reason behind delaying your departure?"

"Try to behave like a grown up, brother."

Sherlock was already on his way to the door, he stopped turned his head a little and spat over his shoulder, "I will when you stop behaving like one."

Mycroft exhaled a frustrated sigh. He couldn't even remember when he wasn't a grown up, when he wasn't being the responsible brother. He looked at the empty chair in front of him and got up. He had another meeting coming up. Hopefully that will go better than this, he thought.

~0~0~0~

Anthea called her employer for the second time to confirm their location and arrival. She ended the call and looked at the man sitting beside her. Or dozing off. Who is this man? She wondered, not for the first time. Of course, she knew exactly who this man was. Mycroft Homes had spent a great deal of his time and resources to locate, relocate and secure this young soldier for the past two months. He had gone a great length ensuring this soldier's safety and wellbeing. Anthea knew his file like a palm of her hand by now but that didn't sate her curiosity. She couldn't connect why this apparently non-descriptive army doctor was so important to a man like Mycroft Holmes. She couldn't form any theory why Mycroft spent so much of his effort for this man while his own brother was going through a fatal relapse. Anthea knew there was a connection between these two incidents because no matter how ambitious Mycroft Holmes was nothing surpassed his dedication to his little brother. There were dots with invisible lines connecting them.

The soldier was strangely quiet. Yes, true that he was severely injured and not fully recovered yet but his quietness didn't seem like injury related. He did ask a few questions when she checked him out of the facility in Glasgow but as there were no instruction to reveal any kind of information she avoided every question politely and this man didn't press any further. He looked so broken and hollow. As if he didn't even care about anything, anymore.

She averted her eyes from the sleeping man and looked outside the window. The window glass reflected London night lights.

~0~0~0~

John woke up with a jerk. Someone was calling his name. His instant reaction was to grab his gun only to remember that he was not in the battlefield, not anymore. His medicine addled focus zeroed on a brunette woman and the past few hours surfaced on his mind. He realized that the woman, Anthea, John's mind supplied the name, was asking him to get out of the car as they had arrived where they were meant to. With a great difficulty he left the car, it took him several minutes to get his uncooperative body to steer accordingly but he refused any help from the driver. He even refused their offer for a wheelchair. He might be injured but not invalid, not completely.

Once his feet found a solid ground and steadied themselves. He looked at the stately building in front of him. It was definitely a facility or an institution of some sort and if the number of security guards indicated anything it was damn important too. There was a gold-plated name just outside the gate. John squinted his eyes to read it. Diogenes Club. He had absolutely no idea what that was or what the hell was he doing here. That woman didn't tell him anything except that they were going to London.

London. Sherlock.

A pang of pain shot through his chest and constricted it which had nothing to do with his physical injury. The early December wind ruffled his slightly longer hair. He tried to take a deep breath. Tried to inhale the same air which Sherlock was breathing right now, probably. John knew it was as close as he would get to his detective. He swallowed a lump and entered the building, escorted by the same security person who was in the car with him. For some reason that Anthea woman didn't come with him. John didn't know why and couldn't care less. He just glanced at her before following the security guard who looked liked a character from a James Bond film. The unsteady sound of metal on a wooden floor reverberated into the otherwise eerily quiet interior.

The guard stopped in front of a large door, presumably an office, and knocked. Someone from inside asked them to enter. It was more like an order than a permission. He opened the door and held it for John to enter. He entered.

It was indeed an official room. A government one, if the flags were of any indication. In the middle of that ridiculously large room and behind an equally large table was sitting a man who, the soldier realized, was one of the most intimidating people he had ever seen. John couldn't see any name plate on the table, maybe it was outside the door and he missed it. As he began to approach the table the man stood up and sported a smile that could make neon pink hair look more genuine. But he was too tired and dazed to even bristle, so he strode on.

"Hello, Dr. Watson. It's nice to finally meet you."

John nodded and just as he, too, extended his hand to shake the man's he introduced himself as, "Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock's brother.

Sherlock...

John staggered back. His breathing stopped for a moment, mind going numb, vision white. He faintly realized that someone shook his limp hand and thought he heard the man saying something else before tuning out totally, something like,

"Welcome home, Doctor."

~0~0~0~